Chapter 3: 11 Years Earlier

Bella P.O.V

I stared at myself in the mirror. I saw a beautiful girl, her plain brown hair looking extraordinarily un-plain bouncing with life and shine. She was wearing an equally gorgeous white woman tuxedo– made of silk and especially tailored to fit her body and emphasize the important curves, a perfect outfit for a cello player in a professional orchestra of Julliard alumni. An outfit perfect for someone who is the star of the performance. Is it true, that this woman could really be me? Behind all the make-up, behind all the masks I'm forced to wear, am I really deserving of the things this images projects? I couldn't be more unsure.

My sudden and brief confidence in my new appearance quickly faded as my father and manager came next to me with his usual frown. He started lecturing me on how important this performance is – the make or break performance of my career; I owed it to him to do my best because of the money invested in my musical education, and what not. It was always this way with him. Every performance was important, always the make or break. After my mother died when I was young, this was the only thing Charlie had to focus on. My passion for music that she had encouraged became a business for him – the only way to remove his feelings toward my mother and his old connection to the art, while pushing both of their dreams on to me. We were never close after her death, and more often than not argued and fought over this subject. We only tolerated each other for my mother; she would have wanted to keep us together.

Alice, my loyal best friend since childhood, and accomplished musician and fashion designer; bounced excitedly behind the beautiful woman in the mirror, squealing that all her hard work had been for good use after the manager left the premises. She looked absolutely breath taking as well, in her black professionally styled low cut V-neck dress. She was the best violinist Juilliard has probably ever had; and the only one who has managed to get a double major (both masters) in music and fashion design and minor in graphic art design in the same six years. She has her own clothing line on the side, but uses majority of her talent making the wardrobe for the members of our travelling orchestra and designing the posters for all our events. We all envy her seemingly endless amount over energy.

Alice informed me of the time before we gathered with the other members for our back stage ritual. Always a finger warm up, breathing exercises, stroking of our egos for confidence, and someone usually throws in a prayer somewhere…

We enter left stage as earlier instructed; we get settled, mentally rehearse our parts in the piece, and continue to stretch our fingers. We all sit quietly in the one-way darkness – only we can see the audience while they wait patiently for the show to start – looking on as they greet their loved ones and dates for the evening. I catch sight of a beautiful man with the strangest shade of red-ish brown hair I've ever come across. It looked much like a penny and appeared that he stuck his head out the window on the ride over, although he somehow managed to make it work… He had the most tantalizing green eyes, with the face and body build most men would kill for. He took his place in my corner of the right stage, two rows in front of me.

I'm getting ahead of myself here…

My name is Isabella Marie Swan, a twenty-year-old graduate of Julliard Art Institute. As I said earlier I'm a cello player in an orchestra, and the life as I come to know it is about to come crumbling down.

It all started with that concert. I hadn't realized how disconnected and mechanical my life had become – the beautiful man had once again awakened my love for playing, and my love of music. I played from my heart, once again feeling the story that was incorporated in this piece Alice, the director, and I spent hours creating. Throughout the entire concert, I was certain we never broke eye contact. I've always felt the most vulnerable while I played this way – whatever I'm feeling is always on my face ready to read like an open book. His eyes seemed to see right through me, he understood me. The message was written in his eyes, in the soft crooked smile that had not left his face since my first note…

It ended before either of us knew it. Alice had to shake my shoulder to get my attention again – by this time, more than half of the theatre was gone, and the man and I stayed in our places staring… Alice forced me back stage; I caught sight of the door, the last image of the man as he exited with the rest of the audience. Was it wrong that my heart now felt heavy in my chest? I said my silent goodbyes, reluctantly, before settling in front of my mirror and my manager rushing me so we could go out to dinner.

Tonight, it seemed to be the big pay off my father always pushed me for, a big shot in the music industry had come to the show tonight. He adored my performance and offered me a spot in a professional orchestra constructed with some of the world's greatest musicians. Charlie, my father, immediately invited him to talk it over dinner. I followed behind as the two men discussed the business proposals excitedly as I quietly mourned my youth, my dreams, and the control over my life. It wasn't something I would be allowed to refuse – any dreams I had before now would have to vanish the second my signature appeared, inked on the contract.

The three of us were at the lip of the lobby, when I heard the voice of an angel calling my name. A voice better than an angel's I realized as I saw the man with a head full of messy copper hair and the breath taking emerald eyes standing in front of me with his crooked smile.

"Isabella." Was all he said to me as he smiled handing me a fragrant bouquet of red and white roses lined with cream-colored carnations and freesia blossoms. Oh. My…

"Thank you. Thank you so much…" I stammer out a few seconds too late, still recovering from the shock of his voice and the fact that he knows my name… "How did you know…" I can't even finish the sentence when I look up from the flowers.

He was a little sheepish as he answered, "I've seen it on practically every poster this week, not to mention the program… I didn't mean to come off as stalker-ish, my apologies Isabella."

I smiled realizing that he was human like me, and held out my hand to him, "Please, call me Bella."

He kissed my hand, and I swear, without the slightest bit of exaggeration, I died as he did so. He was absolutely unbearable!

"Bella," he smiled making me smile wider in turn because of the way it rolled off his tongue, "I have to say you were very well named 'Beautiful Swan'. I'm Cullen. Edward Cullen."

I laughed before I could even think about it and teased him for introducing himself like James Bond. He got me back when he claimed to be better, with a sexy smirk – a statement I couldn't argue much with. He complemented my talent, and I learned more about him. He was also a musician, a small thing he started with a brother and a friend from high school. Edward was a huge fan of classical music and made regular trips to the theatre for inspiration. He had lived in a small town in Washington before moving here, to New York at age twelve.

I was having the time of my life, talking in the lobby with Edward, when I had to take off the glass slippers and get back to reality.

"Bella! What's taking you so long, reservations are at ten. It's rude to keep our guest waiting. Didn't your mother and I teach you better manners, I'm sorry George, I don't know what's gotten into her! Bella!"

I wanted to curl in the tightest ball possible and die.

I gave a heavy sigh, before I thanked Edward Cullen and gave a strained attempt at a goodbye. He grabbed my hand before I was out of reach.

"If you'll still be in town tomorrow, I'd like to meet you. Ten a.m. at Central park near the fountain, I'll be waiting."

"I'll be there." Staring briefly, but purposefully into his eyes again before I ran off to my father.